Welcome Home
by Arya Kirkland
Summary: Alfred comes home from a hard day's work to a rather cheerful Ivan who just finished preparing dinner. Maybe that's just what Al needs. [fluff - Rusame]


_**Author's note: **_For someone special ^J^

* * *

A Monday two weeks from payday. No holidays until May, which was three painstaking months away.

There seemed to be no break in sight. The typically cheerful and easygoing young man had no energy left - which was very rare, but today was definitely a different kind of monster. Work tested his limits, and it was a cruel and unusual hell. Maybe it was the seemingly endless stream of clients, or the computer system being down for the better half of the morning. Despite feeling somewhat thankful he could get some fresh air, he still was coming home with a banging headache and empty pockets once again.

Letting out a labored sigh, Alfred adjusted his collar, lifting it up so he could loosen his red and white-striped silk tie. Next came the first few buttons of his neatly pressed dress shirt, which was a relief short-lived. Alfred's attention returned to the dim-lit hallway before him, his well-polished black dress shoes making soft impressions on the crimson oriental style red and gold-embroidered carpet below.

He didn't bother to pick up his feet as he dragged along past the long row of doors that lined the hallway. The working man stopped at one unique door labeled '1008' in small gold-plated digits. Alfred never guessed he would feel so happy to see those numbers (except in the form of dollars, of course.)

A hand dove into his trench coat for a quick moment and his fingers curled around a ring of keys. He inserted a little silver one marked with the letter 'H' in sharpie marker into the keyhole and, with a flick of the wrist, realized it had some give. The door must have been left unlocked on purpose.

Slowly, the blonde man opened the door and yelled through the small crack. "Yo, I'm home!"

There was no answer. He listened carefully for a response but could only make out the brass sound of clanking pots and pans. Large, skewed shadows scurried along the freshly painted walls and cascaded down the square modern paintings of flower fields and stars. He stared intently at the end of the narrow hallway, trying to make out anyone in the darkness of his apartment.

"...Anyone?" He whimpered. God, if there were any zombies or freaky ghosts...

Trembling at that thought, he squeaked and hugged his briefcase tightly against his chest. "Hellooooo?"

"Ah, Alfred! I didn't hear you come in!" A soft voice carried from the kitchen. A large man decently built and unusually tall appeared, resting his stocky frame against the wooden paneling of the kitchen doorway. The man's eyes softened and a flush, deep pink crept over his cheeks as he saw his disheveled companion approach him. "How was work today?" He said sweetly, a large smile growing along his lips. He made sure to keep a good grip on the wet cutting board that held the shavings and cuttings of a recently chopped onion.

"Same ol', same ol'..." Alfred exhaled deeply, using the last of his energy to toss his heavy work suitcase against the wall. His stomach growled and he instinctively let out a whine, grabbing at his midsection when he felt a grumble. "H-hey, what's for dinner? I'm starving..."

Ivan looked up at the wall across the hall, resting his eyes on a black plaque, the standard greeting of "Welcome" cut out in beautiful cursive lettering. Three strips of tape were haphazardly placed above three hooks designed to hold house keys. He focused on the tape with the name 'Matt' written hastily across it as if to make sure he wasn't seeing things, and gave a nod. "Mm, I believe Matthew stepped out for a little bit so tonight, it's my famous колбаса! You're in for a treat! Your food choices are terrible, so I thought I'd make something more nutritious!"

Before Ivan even finished speaking, Alfred already made way into the kitchen to inspect the spread on the stove. He was lifting the glass tops, getting splashed with hot steam and water droplets with each one, but stopped when he saw a familiar item. "You really made hot dogs?! But not on the grill... and ewwwwww….. that lettuce over there is totally expired!"

Ivan pushed himself off of the wood to tighten the strings of his pink apron behind his back. "What you speak of is my квашеная капуста. But I am so proud of you! It is fermented cabbage among other things, if you want to get technical -" The Russian was pleasantly surprised with his friend and clapped his hands together excitedly.

Alfred's face turned an unusual shade of white as his eyes fell on the heap of yellowed strands resting in a traditional red bordered ceramic bowl. His expression sour, he laughed nervously and took a few steps back from the counter. "- N-no thanks. I'd rather not."

"...And it's high in vitamins yet low in fat at the same time! It will help you stay healthy and strong!" Ivan picked up a long wooden spoon, lifting the top of a piping hot pot on a back burner of the stove and stirred occasionally. He yanked on his turtleneck collar to stretch the white cotton fabric just enough to have a little more breathing room. The kitchen was starting to get stuffy.

"It won't matter if I die from the smell first..." Alfred pinched his nose.

The tall man casually placed the wooden utensil on a folded piece of towel beside the cutting board. He had heard it from others that his food didn't smell exactly the most appetizing, so it was in his best interest to give Alfred a taste! With a spare tablespoon, Ivan struggled to gather a modest helping of the shredded strings. "Ah, you're so tense! Just have a little bite!" he chirped.

"No! Just drop it!" He screamed in horror and flailed his arms about. He refused to have anything 'weird' today: not after a day such as this! He just wanted some good, high-caloric, 'stick-to-your-bones' comfort food like a mouthwatering, juicy steak with a side of buttered mashed potatoes.

"Here comes the airplane~~!" He sang sweetly, twisting and turning the spoon with wide zig zags motion in the air. He playfully jabbed the cold instrument against Alfred's sealed lips. "A-ah, open up! You're gonna make the plane crash!"

"Whaaaa?! G-get tha-" With a quick thrust, the spoon was propelled forward into his mouth. "Mmmph!" He stumbled forward as he let out a loud, abrupt cough, and struggled to cover his mouth with his hands. A hurried and swift swallow prevented him from tasting much as the soft foreign substance traveled down his throat. He instantly gasped for air and leaned his forehead into an arm he threw against the wall. "I... I almost fucking died."

Ivan managed to slip out of the way and in front of the fridge. He brought his wrist to his mouth in a light-hearted chuckle. "Aww, it wasn't so bad~"

Alfred stood still as he absorbed his words. It tasted so… weird! He clenched his fist tightly against the painted surface, still trying to get the unfamiliar taste out of his mouth.

Seeing that there was a trace of the food still left on the silverware, the Russian gave it a long lick, savoring the flavor of an old favorite of his. "You like it, да? Don't be shy, I know you do!"

"But I told you to quit it! What the hell?! I know you understand me... you know plain English! No means no!"

"Alfred,..." Ivan whimpered, sinking back into the cold metal appliance behind him. "I'm s-sorry…" He gave the standard kitchen item a tight squeeze with both hands. Large, deep purple eyes were cast downward, tears forming at the corners. Raised voices were always so frightening to him.

Alfred, as dense as he usually was in reading the atmosphere, realized the Russian's pained expression. When Ivan began fiddling with the hem of his apron, Alfred propelled himself off the wall, still annoyed that his personal space was invaded. "W-whatever, it's fine! I ate some Cinnabon on my way home. Just...I don't want to miss the Saints game so don't worry about me!"

Of course, Monday nights were always the same deal. Ivan took many mental notes about it. Americans enjoyed their Monday night football - they were crazy with it. It was the standard talk around the water cooler the next day at work: who's quarterback stood out more, how one's defensive line played, how many turnovers there were. The Russian never could get into such a strange and violent sport, but respected it for the fact that it made Alfred happy, which was desperately needed right now...

Ivan reached for the younger blonde, clumsily tripping over his feet. He stumbled and managed to regain his balance before falling into one of the kitchen cabinets. His eyes followed his disgruntled roommate as he stomped out of the room, the wooden frames of the pictures mounted on the wall rattling back and forth. With one particularly rough slam of the foot, a lone picture dropped with a clang. Ivan gasped and rushed over to assess the damage.

The Russian hurriedly fell to his knees to hug the frame tightly against his chest. If there was anything he held onto most, it was memories. He pulled the picture away from him only to take a look at what it was: a photo of him with a very young sister Natalya. She looked not a day older than 7 and beamed brightly with a wide smile in Ivan's arms.

As scared as he was of Natalya most of the time, Ivan thought she was a lovely girl with... a lot to offer, to say the least. The tiny Belarusian girl was very skilled at handling sharp objects, which wasn't much of a surprise, but it had its benefits: she could chop any vegetable or meat up in seconds flat. Ivan figured if he had a skilled and steady hard such as hers, things might have turned out differently tonight. Maybe he could try to prepare more exotic dishes...

His platinum blonde stands shielded his eyes as he ran his fingertips against the cracks that now plagued and uglied the glass. His lip quivered he traced the smiles that graced their faces. "Ah, my little sister… if only you were here… maybe we could cook up something extraordinary for Al..."

* * *

It was a quarter past eight, and Ivan was still cleaning up the mess in the kitchen. To him, it was unnatural to eat dinner alone at the kitchen table, but Alfred was still having no parts of dinner for undisclosed reasons. It was something Ivan found difficult to comprehend: his culinary skills were something he took much pleasure in. He always received numerous compliments from others. Yao devoured his dishes in seconds flat, Veneziano begged for seconds, and Arthur, God bless his troubled soul, often asked for the Russian's cooking secrets.

But cooking to him was always something more than a simple art. It was the best way to show your love and dedication towards family and friends, and one of the few ways to display one's culture with pride. Big sister Katyusha would host family gatherings every Sunday, making sure that Ivan watched when she cut out circles in the flattened dough and pinched the sides of a dumpling with a fork. Her dishes were the best he ever tasted. Ivan would always ask his sister what her secret was, but she would always answer with a standard "One day you'll see."

His heart sank. He tried his best to imitate Katyusha's lovely dishes but Alfred wasn't happy with his menu. Ivan tried to shake the harsh words and upsetting images out of his mind with busy work. "Труд челове́ка ко́рмит, а лень по́ртит,*" he chanted and rolled his heavy cotton sleeves up past his elbows. But the way the American's eyebrows furrowed disturbed him...

Turning the faucet on with a flick of his wrist, Ivan grabbed the sponge resting on the basin of the sink to begin wiping off his plate. He made sure to spread the soap suds for a thorough clean. When he was finished, he set the lone plate on the drying rack beside him and rested his gaze to the clock above the sink. A tiny, red arm made its way over every number with a shallow and nauseating tick.

The flannel scarf around his neck was loosened with a free hand and he shyly looked over his shoulder towards the living room. A once jubilant, young man once so excited about life was now reduced to a lifeless sack of potatoes. With a short inhale, Ivan twirled on his heel, his boots clanking against the floor with his advance into the living room. "Alfred, it's not good to continue eating like this."

There was no answer. A dull, spiritless set of eyes fixated on TV screen. The baby blues followed a group of green and white jerseys that scurried across the screen in a long touchdown pass. "..." Alfred took a sip of his luke warm, frothy beer but otherwise refused to move another finger as the recliner around him swallowed him whole.

The pale man passed a large, furnished black bookcase, idly running his hand along the collection of books held there. His fingers traced along the golden letters of a specific book's spine: Grimms' Fairy Tales, a wonderful anthology of stories he just recently discovered. It was always one of Alfred's favorites, one of the few pieces of literature Alfred cared to read. He gave the book a good pat.

"I.. I had Toris over today. He says he misses you. He wonders how your job is going at the office and all…" Ivan stopped just behind Alfred and entwined his fingers above his waist. He twiddled his thumbs anxiously as he hoped for a positive response.

"Oh yeah? That's cool. Give Toris my regards…" Alfred said flatly. He placed the blue plastic cup on the coffee table beside his armrest. Tired eyes returned to his flat screen tv as the small and quick quarterback hugged his teammate, slapping his trusty running back on the shoulder with congratulations.

Ivan's eyes narrowed in disappointment. Alfred was acting like a spoiled, ungrateful child. It was one of the downsides of loving and caring for a much younger man. Times were much different from his own young adult years. Those were the days you were forced to confront your fears; unable to hide behind a screen of some complex piece of technology. To him, this was inconceivable.

A more direct approach was in order. He pressed his hips forward into the back of the couch, the heat of his body making a soft, temporary imprint in the leather. Bending in half, he rested his fingertips against the side of Alfred's neck as he leaned forward and inhaled deeply. He paused for a short moment and opened his eyes slowly. Ivan shot the tired businessman a sharp gaze from underneath his lashes. "Oh? You always smell so sweet whenever you eat from there… but frankly, you smell so foul…"

The young blonde jolted in his seat. If there was one thing that caught his attention, it was his hygiene. Alfred turned to look over his shoulder and stammered helplessly. "Y-you're saying I smell bad?! You really don't have any manners, do you?!" Now apprehensive, he crossed his arms over his chest. He was sticking to his story and that was that.

"нет, I just know a bad liar when I see one. What's really bothering you, Alfred?" Ivan tapped his fingers against a vein. The drowned out sound of a car horn could be heard in the distance. "You can say it, I won't tell a soul."

"That's a sack of shit, dude, and you know it." The American scoffed and waved him off. He adjusted in his seat, clamping his hands around his leg and lifted a bare foot off of the cold, hardwood floor. The slick leather fabric stuck to his skin as he rolled his foot to a comfortable position. The game came to a halt and halftime report was about to start. He prepared himself for a rundown of scores and stats of other games.

Alfred's volatile response was certainly a curveball. His tall, awkward roommate straightened himself back up, turning around to return to the kitchen to finish his chores. "A-Ahh... well, if you really think so, I'll just go and finish cleaning the -" Ivan was cut off by the sudden sensation of a strong tugging at his sleeve.

Alfred's arm was outstretched and held onto the loose fabric of Ivan's sweater. "Am I fat?" His voice trembled, his head hung low in embarrassment and gaze cast to the floor.

"E-eh...?" Unsure if he heard him correctly, Ivan froze and looked behind his shoulder.

"Tell me the truth. I'm fat, aren't I?" He repeated and gave the Russian a hard jerk.

"Is that what this is about?" Ivan placed a hand over Alfred's and lifted it cautiously away from him. "My, you really are helpless... now who told you that?"

"N-no one did! Its just that... that I..." A blush appeared across his cheeks. He paused for a long moment and brought an uneasy arm behind his head. He muttered lowly, almost with a guilty conscience. "...Francis did."

Ivan smiled broadly as his expression darkened to something almost sinister. "The little frog... did he now?" He nibbled at the tip of his finger in suspense, a little voice inside told the Russian to get his pipe...

"All he does is sit around all day and claims he's on an in-house strike! That's not fair, I want to be on strike too!" Alfred sat up and slapped his chest with an open palm.

Ivan shook his head and sighed. He should have known as soon as Alfred walked through the door. Countless nights were spent talking about the Frenchman and his deplorable work habits. "So you got into it again with him? You have always worried so much about what others think..."

Alfred whined and instinctively tried to reach for the remote secured in Ivan's grasp. "Hey! Turn the volume back up!"

"That won't be necessary. Alfred..." With a click, Ivan placed the remote on the glass surface beside him. Alfred looked up at the older man towering over him and couldn't help but slouch his shoulders in a cower. He felt a soft hand run down the side of his cheek, tucking a section of his honey-blonde hair behind his ear. Alfred opened his mouth to speak only to feel a warm breath brush against his lips. The strong, spicy and salty taste of Slavic cooking flooded his mouth as Ivan pulled him up into a deep and passionate kiss. Like a crashing wave in vast, warm waters, the American was overcome with pent-up emotion and clutched onto Ivan's sweater for something to keep him grounded. His eyes were hazed over in a trance. Ivan was the only person who could match his energy; his heart and soothe him, just like a mother would with her child.

Pulling away slowly, Ivan continued to keep a steady hand against the center of Alfred's back. The older man recovered quickly. He waved a finger from side to side before tapping Alfred on the tip of his nose. "Now turn that frown upside down~!" he chirped.

Alfred panted, gasping for air and cheeks reddened. He loosened his grip gradually. "Ha... ha... You're so... mean..." A devious grin crept across his face as he wiped his mouth with a shirt sleeve.

"Mmn? Really now? Would it be mean of me to say I also made some пря́ник*?"

"R-really?! Why didn't you say that in the first place?!" He made fists with his hands and brought them up to his chest in excitement.

"But you can't have any until you eat all of your dinner! I can feed it to you if you'd like ^J^~"

"... a-ahhh… that's okay, I'll pass…" Waving his hands politely, he flashed Ivan a dumb and broad smile. When the two paused, exchanging glances, the American ran a free hand through his now unkempt hair. His eyes focused on the shoes thrown beside the tv. "So.. ah… about before… I'm . I'm sorry about that…"

"Don't worry about it," Ivan pressed a finger to his own cheek and squinted his eyes. He raised his shoulders and put on his signature sweet and innocent smile. "I'm glad you're smiling now! A happy Alfred makes a happy me! Ehe~"

* * *

It was an hour later, and the kitchen was once again full of life. The two sat across from each other at the tiny wooden table set against the wall. Ivan idly played with one of the wilting petals of a yellow tulip by rubbing his fingers together. The sound of a beaded string hanging from a ceiling fan relaxed the homemaker as it tapped against the exposed light bulb.

Alfred was preoccupied stuffing his face with various items Ivan reheated for him. He was hesitant at first but then agreed when he felt like he was going to die from starvation. But his initial thoughts were dead wrong: everything was so frickin' SWEET!

The American took the time to precut all the items on his plate in squares before digging in. He enthusiastically stabbed a large cut of sausage with his fork and spoke - his mouth full of food. "Mm... Mmmm! Hey Ivan, this hot dog is frickin' awesome! What did you do to it?" Now in a lighter mood, Alfred returned to his typical gluttonous ways.

Ivan leaned his elbows on the table as he laced his fingers together, resting his chin there. "Ah... things... M-my recipe is secret!" He continued to watch Alfred whose eating habits fully amused him. Gradually, the Russian felt an overwhelming sensation of what seemed to be butterflies in his stomach. Silly Alfred, him and his quirky ways...

Maybe this was what Katyusha spoke of when she said she cooked with love.

Spotting a small piece of food at a corner of his lip, Ivan folded a white handkerchief and leaned over, dabbing the cloth against the younger's skin. With a short inhale, Alfred's eyes opened wide.

_"Welcome home, Al."_

* * *

**Translations:**

1. Колбаса - Kielbasa, yep...

2. Квашеная капуста - Kvashenaya kapusta - A special type of Sauerkraut… eh

3. Труд челове́ка ко́рмит, а лень по́ртит - something along the lines of "Hard work never hurt anyone" / "If you will work hard, you can achieve great things in life, and if you will be lazy, you'll become dull."

4. Пря́ник - Prjánik - Gingerbread


End file.
